


Wire Rimmed Eyes

by gaykiwi



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald
Genre: First Person, Gen, I don’t know how to format help me, I wrote this for an English assignment and got a 100 on it lmao, Murder, Suicide, Wilson has had e n o u g h, first story on this website, so does Wilson tbh, they can both choke, tom sucks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 04:19:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14783477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaykiwi/pseuds/gaykiwi
Summary: Gatsby’s murder from Wilson’s perspective.





	Wire Rimmed Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Hey friends! This was for an English assignment and I figured that I would post it.

I sat at my desk slowly and methodically loading a revolver. I had never really expected to use it like this, but Tom Buchanan knew who it was who hit Myrtle. He knew who ran my wife down on the road and left her there like vermin. I felt the anger and disappointment in my gut slosh over a wall and simmer; the steam rolled up and blurred my vision.

Myrtle was– 

Years gone down the drain first flooded my head before vanishing into the scene of her laying there. My throat closed and the pressure behind my eyes intensified. She was just gone. A ragged breath escaped, leaving me gasping, trying to calm down. I sat there for so long with sobs wracking my body, unable to continue. 

It could have been any amount of time before I ran out of tears. My lungs heaved irregularly, ignoring how I’d already stopped crying. I just… She was just… We had been fighting. That was our last interaction. I’d been yelling at her about her new pearls and she was crying. It was the last time we spoke. 

What could possibly give a man the right to just… just kill someone and not give a second thought to what would happen to everyone else around? Not even stop? Coward, I thought and was surprised by the arsenic that laced my own thoughts. I jammed the gun into my pocket and rubbed my hands over my face. What am I doing? Danced through my mind when I slammed the door shut. I didn’t acknowledge it. Old bespectacled eyes wore holes on my back as I drove. 

My knuckles were bright white when I tore down the roads. Cars blared their horns and the buildings blurred. Occasionally a flash of yellow would enter my vision. Those were the moments my head seemed crushed on a hot stove and I had to stop myself from jerking the wheel. The metal circles scarred the image of Myrtle in my head. Myrtle, running out waving her arms in front of oncoming traffic. Myrtle, screaming for the yellow car to stop. Myrtle, ripped open on the pavement. Myrtle, dead.

My wheels protested against the asphalt when I slammed down the brake pedal in front of Tom Buchanan’s house. I pounded my fist against the door until I heard footsteps clicking against their floor. The door swung open to reveal a livid Tom. 

“Who the h-!” He started, but cut himself off. “Oh, Mr. Wilson. What can I do for you?” His eyes were trained on the revolver. I placed my hand on it. 

“You know whose car it was. The yellow fancy one.” I told him. It wasn’t a question. He appeared to contemplate his next words. He knows who did it. Why would he hold back the name of the killer unless he was trying to protect them?! I took a step closer, “Whose. Car. Was. It.” My voice shook. 

Tom glanced up to make eye contact and then back down. “There- there is a man. He lives in the West Egg. You may have heard of his parties in the papers? Name’s uh, Jay Gatsby.”

I had seen his name. Several times, in fact, and always on the front page. A real rich guy who would buy someone pearls without a second thought. My grip tightened and I took another shuffle forwards. “Do you know ‘im?” I asked. Maybe he’d tell me what Jay Gatsby’s relationship was to Myrtle. 

Tom’s face twisted, “Oh I know him, alright. I don’t like anything about him. He knows my wife, and she seems to see something in him, but he’s a right nasty fellow. He throws all of these parties with questionable people. Have you ever looked into what he does? Ever wonder where all of that money came from? He’s a crook. A damn blaggard.”

“Did he know Myrtle?” Gatsby deserved what was coming towards him, I decided. 

Tom shifted on his feet and briefly glanced away, “I uh, couldn’t be sure.”

I leaned in and sneered, “You know him! Did he know Myrtle of not?”

“He probably did! Why else would he-?” Tom flinched away from his own words. “I mean, he owns that yellow car so he must have been driving it.”

I nodded, not needing anything more. Walking back to my car seemed to cause a dam to shatter and now there wasn’t a place in my head that would escape its waters. It was Gatsby who Myrtle was cheating with. What kind of man screws another man’s wife and then just kills her?! I took off down the street with the city blurring past, my mind numb. 

 

Arriving at the lavish mansion made my head spin. I had seen pictures of it in the paper, but this? Who needed this? He had so much material yet it was all empty of people and feeling. I didn’t know if I should be envious of or pity the man. I ignored the feeling. I crept in through his neighbor’s yard, which really needed its grass trimmed, and up through the trees. Distant splashing broke through the honey-like air. Was Gatsby swimming? He’s just enjoying his day in a swimming pool after killing my wife? I move faster, wanting this man’s wretched existence wiped from the earth more and more by the second. My hands began to shake from either adrenaline or anger. 

I made quick work of the property, following the sound of splashing. Using just pure luck to not be seen by the mansion’s caretakers, I find the pool. I stood from my heightened ground and glared down at Gatsby’s figure in the water. He deserves this, I told myself. He’s a murderer.

I raise my revolver. 

Bespectacled eyes are on my back. 

I count to ten. 

A breath rattles out of my lungs. 

I squeeze the trigger.

And I squeeze it a second time. 

And I squeeze it a third, but not aiming at Gatsby.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!!


End file.
